CHAPTER XIII. MARK ANTONY IN LOVE FIRST, AND IN TROUBLE AFTERWARDS.
“Oh, Heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip,
To lash the rascal naked through the world.”
Shakspere
Fate seemed determined that on the world’s stage mine should be a hurried entree; and, when I had only caught a glimpse of passing life, that my bark should be launched at once upon the current of existence, to float or flounder as it could. Short as my career had been, it had not passed unmarked by incident. To fortune I was already indebted for more than one deliverance; and believing them to be an earnest of future civilities on the lady’s part, I resolved to take the world as it came, put my trust in the blind goddess of the wheel, and prove the proverbial good luck which mostly follows in the footsteps ol an Irishman. Willingly, therefore, I obeyed my father’s orders, and on the following evening quitted the Emerald Isle, on the pleasant and profitable pursuit of “the bubble reputation.”
It had surprised me that, hitherto, no communication had reached me from Mark Antony O’Toole, touching the adventures which had befallen him since his disappearance from Kilcullen. There, his evasion, as my father mentioned in Iris letter, had occasioned a marvellous sensation. Miss Kitty O’Dwyer, as a mere matter of course, having been expected to commit suicide, or die broken-hearted within a fortnight. Neither event, however, as the fancy say, “came off.” Kitty continued in rude health, and the fosterer’s movements remained still wrapped in mystery. But, as it turned out, Mark Antony’s career was singularly connected with my own—the same star appeared to rule our destinies—both were simultaneously leaving the land of the west, apparently at the beck of fortune’s finger; and of the twain, which pursuit was the more crotchetty would have been a question; the fosterer, levanting for love, and I, for glory.
We left Mark Antony and his fair companion on the road, with the world before them, and some wayfarers, like themselves, in the rear. Whoever the travellers might prove to be who approached the dell where the fosterer and his friend had refreshed themselves, it was quite evident that the school where their philosophy had been acquired was of any order but the crying one. One manly voice trolled a jovial drinking song, to which two others occasionally bore a bui’den. As a sharp turning in the road, skirted with thick copsewood, masked the stranger’s advance, their merry laugh and reckless gaiety told that Father Care was not of “the companie and their calling and character might have been shrewdly guessed from passing conversation and snatches of song.
“I wonder, Pat,” said one of the wayfarers, “to see you in such spirits after parting with Nelly Blake as if your heart was breaking. Neither of ye cared a button at leaving me watching for a long hour at the other side of the hedge like a poacher, for fear the old priest would come out and catch you philandering with his housekeeper. Lord, how you swore, and she—poor girl!—believed it; but when you strove to cry and keep her company, oh!—that was all but the death of me.”
“Well, Tom,” returned the second, “if I broke down at the weeping, you will admit that I did not disgrace my calling, but swore like a trooper. You’ll hardly believe how much that girl has bothered me. Hand me the cruiskeen. Remember, Tom, for love there’s but one remedy,—and the beauty of it is, that for every symptom it proves a certain cure,—hear what the song says—
“If you ere love a maid who your passion derides,
Drink enough, you’ll find charms in a dozen besides,
Drink more, and your victory then is complete,
For you’ll fancy you love every girl that you meet.”
“Hallo!—who have we here? Talking of love, they seem to be a couple of Cupid’s own. Egad, a nice girl,—and if I could but list her companion! Lord, what shoulders he has for a pair of wings!”
In another minute the travellers were alongside the fosterer and his friend. A civil greeting passed; and with that easy confidence with which natives of the Emerald Isle hold communication with each other, it was speedily ascertained that the route of the united party was the same, until it reached a road-side inn, where the strangers announced it to be their intention of halting for the night.
The dress and personal appearance of the wayfarers was remarkable: one wore the uniform of a militia-man; another the dark clothing of a student; but from the costume of the third, it was impossible to form any opinion of what his calling might be.
He was a tall and stout-made personage, apparently of middle age, with sandy hair and whiskers, partially intersprinkled with grey. His countenance was particularly good-humoured—and in his light blue eyes there was an expression of drollery and acuteness. He wore a hare-skin cap, a dark-coloured shooting-jacket, short tights, and leather gaiters. He was provided with a goat-skin knapsack—two wiry terriors followed closely at his heels, and a dhudeene and oak-stick completed his appointments. The style also by which his comrades addressed him added to the mystery of his profession: the soldier addressing him as “ta Copteeine,” * and the student merely calling him Shemus Rhua. **
* The Captain.
** Red James.
If in the captain’s sobriquets and outer man there was anything embarrassing, there was nothing about the soldier-like concealment. The chevrons on his arm told his rank, and the pack upon his shoulder his regiment. After announcing that he was on the route to embark with a draught of volunteers for the Peninsula, he thus noticed his companions.
“This,” he said, pointing to the student, “is the making of a priest; but if I can persuade him, he’ll not give them any trouble in Maynooth. What a sin it would be to spoil a fellow cut out for a flanker; and on a shoulder intended to carry a grenade, to hang a surplice. Leave your breviary to your old uncle, and take brown bess in place of it. Spain’s the place, Tom. Egad, how the old priest will stare when he finds out that I have whisked away his nephew.”
“Faith,” replied the student, “the only wonder is you did not whisk away his niece.”
“No, no—Ellen and I must leave matters as they are until we return. Then, I’ll marry your pretty cousin, Tom, and we’ll share Father Dominick’s purse honestly between us. What say ye, captain?”
“Why that you must put the old man under the turf first. He would not part with a dollar to make a colonel of ye.”
“Well, priests cannot live for ever. But whither are you bound, honest Shemus? Are you on a medical excursion at present?”
“Is this gentleman a doctor?” inquired Mark Antony.
“He’s a man of many trades,” returned the sergeant, with a laugh. “With Humbert he was a captain; a doctor afterwards; poaches a little now and then; bleeds old women; ties flies; breaks dogs; cures children; kills rats; and, in a word, is generally accomplished. His titles are numerous as his tastes; and he still holds the same rank he had when he was out with the French in ninety-eight.”
The captain smiled at the sergeant’s description; and the travellers jested, laughed, and sang until they reached the public-house, where they were to separate from the fosterer and his companion.
While the soldier, the student, and the rat-catcher settled themselves in the kitchen, Mark Antony and the wandering girl retired to a private room. Both were heavily cast down, for in a brief space they were to part, and probably for ever.
“And is your resolution unchangeable, Julia?” said Mark Antony, as he clasped her hand.
The girl burst into tears, and faintly answered in the affirmative.
“Hear me, Julia,” said the fosterer, “before you decide; and believe that every word that passes my lips comes directly from the heart. You say that you have no relations; no one to shelter and protect you; none to love you. Julia, why then reject me? Why should we not unite our fates and battle with the world as we can? Alas! I have nothing to offer you but a warm heart and a stout arm. I’ll work for you—toil for you—fight for you. Will you not then let me love you, Julia?”
God help the worthy fosterer! With all his soul he was ready to commit matrimony on the moment; and without the slightest knowledge of the means by which he might secure a living for himself, he would have freely undertaken the maintenance of another still more helpless.
“Mark,” said the wanderer, for the first time calling him by that name, “I value your kindness as I should; and think not, in declining to accept your generous offers, that I am cold to your deserving. Far from it. If any happiness were reserved for me, I feel that it would be in uniting my wrecked and wretched fortunes to yours. Nay more; had I enough for both, and that hereafter this blighted heart could ever love again, I would press you to accept my wealth and my affections; for I might safely conclude that with him who offered a husband’s protection to my wretchedness, under altered circumstances, I could not fail in being happy. But no; I will not swamp your young fortunes with mine. My resolution is already formed—and we must part.”
Again the ardent Irishman pressed his suit upon the wanderer; but, true to her determination, the fosterer’s overtures were gratefully but firmly rejected.
“We have yet,” she said with a sigh? “three long long miles to travel. Oh! how weary will they be!—for my heart grows heavier and heavier still!—Ha! what mischief is abroad? Look—yonder stands that ruffian Jew—and see, he points his finger to this window.”
“Who and what is the scoundrel?” inquired the fosterer.
“I cannot tell,” returned the girl, “he joined a strolling party, from which I separated ere I met you. They are sought by outcasts like him and me. Another vagabond who accompanied him, in a drunken quarrel, taxed the Jew with being familiarized to every crime, and added, that he was a returned convict. What his designs regarding me were I cannot tell. When I left the wandering company, he followed—but, thank Heaven! you came—and if he meant me harm, your protection saved me.”
In the mean time, the Jew had disappeared, and Mark Antony endeavoured to persuade his companion that this second meeting was accidental. The girl shook her head. Steps ascended the stairs, the door was unceremoniously opened, and Mr. Montague entered the room, attended by two men, who announced themselves to be officers of justice.
The girl turned pale as death; while the blood rushed to Mark Antony’s brows, as he stepped boldly between his companion and the strangers.
“Fear nothing, love!” exclaimed the fosterer. “By heaven! I’ll murder the scoundrel on the spot, if he attempts to touch you with a finger.”
“I told you,” remarked the Israelite, “what a desperate offender he was. That’s the man that robbed me of my purse, and that’ere woman, a pal of his, assisted.”
“Infamous liar!” exclaimed the accused female; while Mark Antony caught up the poker, and prepared for rebutting the accusation with other proofs than argument. The constables called for assistance; the Jew retreated through the door; and the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher rushed up-stairs, followed by the host of idlers who are ever found loitering about the precincts of an Irish inn.
A scene of indescribable confusion succeeded. All asked questions, to which none would vouchsafe a reply. The Jew solemnly protested he had been robbed; the accused indignantly repelled the charge of felony; while the constables insisted that all concerned should immediately repair to the residence of a neighbouring magistrate, there to be dealt with as appertained to justice. The whole party accordingly set forth to undergo-the ordeal of the law’s inquiry. Mark Antony and his fair friend, under the especial patronage of their quondam road-companions—the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher; and the Israelite aided, counselled, and consoled by the village Dogberries, to whom, in the event of a conviction, the Jew had been, as Jews generally are, most liberal—in promise.
On reaching the domicile of the Justice, the posse comitatus halted in front of the hall door; for, as Mr. Blundel had just fabricated a fourth tumbler, and the water was of consistent heat, some time must elapse before the mixture could be conveniently disposed of. At last, the prisoners were summoned to the presence; and the accused, being duly arraigned, the complainant was invited to detail the wrongs he had received.
At his first interview with the fosterer, the Jew had endeavoured to sink as much of his slang as he could effect; but now his own character was to be supported, and his address to the seat of justice was in the peculiar parlance of his people.
“Vy, ye see, yer vorchip, that my name is Reuben Levi. I’m a jeweller by trade, and an honest man along of it. I comes to Hierland with some goods; sells vot I had at a loss to get home agin; and with five pound in paper, and three guineas and a half in goold, I was returnin to Dublin. If the money’s mine, it’s in a green silk purse, and no mistake.”
The Jew paused; and a reference to Mark Antony’s pocket confirmed the statement of Mr. Montague.
“Vell, yer vorchip—ye sees I tells nothin but vots true—I was joggin on by a lonely road, and who overtakes me but this young voman, and that’ere chap in the welveteen fie-for-shames. I twigged them, yer vorchip, at once; for he’s von of the swell mob, and she no better than she ought to be. Vell, they fastens themselves upon me for a while, until I sits down upon a ditch to rest myself, and ged rid on’em. Vell, down she pops upon my knee and asks me for a trifle, while her pal comes behind, and draws me clean as a whistle. I tries to grip my purse, but—he’s a milling cove, yer vorchip—and in he pops his bunch of fives, darkens this here bye, and laves me flat upon my back. Off they goes like winky—and when I comes to myself, neither robber nor voman was to be seen.”
The easy audacity with which the Hebrew impostor detailed the particulars of the alleged robbery, actually paralyzed the accused. The sergeant looked confounded; the student shook his head; and the rat-catcher alone listened with incredulity, and preserved his faith unshaken. As to the worthy justice, no doubt of the fosterer’s guilt remained upon his mind; and all that puzzled him was, whether he could safely convict the girl as an accomplice. The fatal order to issue the mittimus was on his lips, when the Israelite addressed himself to “the king’s poor esquire,” and, as it appeared, it was mercifully in arrest of judgment.
“In speaking a few words to the worthy beak, I mean his vorchipful honour, I hopes the veakness of my caracter will be excused, vich vos in bein too tender-hearted from the werry eradel. I vould’nt jist wish to have the girl clapped under the screw, nor even that’ere chap should be lagged for life, though he’s fly to everything, from thimble-riggin to wilful murder. So, as the blunt’s got, if yer honour will let the voman off, and only shop the cove as stole the purse for the trifle of a fortnight, I’ll not insist on prosecution.”
While the unblushing Jew was delivering his humane appeal, the fosterer grew pale with rage, the girl red with indignation. There appeared nothing but “warder and fetters for the Graeme” as the justice was in the very act of affixing his sign-manual to the committal, when lo! a change came over the scene—the sound was heard of wheels stopped suddenly—and next moment, a young man, in a sailor’s dress, sprang into the room, and exclaiming, “Julia, my lost one, have I found thee!”—folded the wanderer in his arms, and pressed her ardently to his heart. On the girl, the appearance of the stranger seemed to have produced emotions of greater violence; she uttered a wild shriek, fainted on the sailor’s breast, and was borne by her new protector in a state of insensibility from the hall of justice.
At this unexpected dênoûment all present appeared to be astounded. The fosterer was lost in astonishment, and the magistrate equally surprised to see a person on whom he was about to deal according to law, summarily removed from his jurisdiction, and by a novel proceeding, by no means so formal and yet very like a habeas corpus.
While this grand scena was being enacted, a quieter, but not less interesting episode was in progress in the corner; but we must leave the reader in temporary suspense, as, with this occurrence, we intend to commence another chapter.
